


Feel the Static

by Phoenix_Soar



Series: Scattering Stars Like Dust [5]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Angel/Demon Relationship, Aziraphale and Crowley Through The Ages (Good Omens), Aziraphale is Bad at Feelings (Good Omens), Aziraphale is a Mess (Good Omens), Crowley is a Sweetheart (Good Omens), Eventual Fluff, First Kiss, First Time, Friends to Lovers, Getting Together, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), M/M, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Mild Smut, Regency, Scene: Crucifixion of Jesus 33 AD (Good Omens), Scene: Flood in Mesopotamia 3004 BC (Good Omens), Scene: Garden of Eden (Good Omens), Touch-Starved, Touch-Starved Aziraphale (Good Omens), angel just wants to be held, this fic is a mess but so is aziraphale
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-26
Updated: 2020-12-26
Packaged: 2021-03-10 23:34:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,941
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28335480
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Phoenix_Soar/pseuds/Phoenix_Soar
Summary: Even in their new corporal forms, Angels keep their distance. It’s simply what is done and not once does it occur to Aziraphale that he maytouch.It's only after he is sent to Earth that Aziraphale discovers the different ways humans touch to express affection, something he has never considered before. One touch from Crowley upends everything he's believed about Angels, leaving Aziraphale to grapple with a growing addiction.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Series: Scattering Stars Like Dust [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1762345
Comments: 21
Kudos: 198
Collections: Grow Better / Scribbling Vaguely Downwards - Holiday Swap '20





	Feel the Static

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Notatracer](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Notatracer/gifts).



> This is my gift for Notatracer, for the Scribbling Vaguely Downwards - Holiday Swap '20.
> 
> I barely made it in time, but I hope this fic serves as a nice holiday present that makes up for how long it took me to deliver! Your prompts were lovely and I tried to bring together a handful of them here. I hope you enjoy it <3
> 
> Happy holidays, everyone!

The first sensation Aziraphale feels when he is given a human body is the cold. The stark chill of Heaven’s endlessness. The biting steel of the sword weighing down his hand.

That cool touch is the first one he knows - the only one he knows, because there is little else to feel up here. Even in their new corporal forms, Angels keep their distance. It’s simply what is done and not once does it occur to Aziraphale that he may _touch_.

It is much later, a Rebellion and a new Creation later, that it dawns on Aziraphale that there is so much _more_.

The fall of mankind takes place before him and in its wake, he watches his human charges come together in their Garden. Before this moment, Aziraphale had not imagined how two beings could appear to become one. Yet here they are, entwined in a dance so intimate and beautiful, radiating such love that it makes the organ inside his chest palpitate.

It is not meant for his eyes, not something intended for an Angel, but Aziraphale cannot avert his gaze.

It will be his secret, just a little thing for him to revisit in his mind, he tells himself. To admire and wonder at human touch; this fascinating mystery he will never know.

Oh, how quickly does that assumption crumble!

Atop the wall of Eden, watching the backs of the banished humans, the arrival of the Serpent twists everything Aziraphale has thought he knew.

Here amid the first rain is where Aziraphale drops the pebble, setting off ripples fated to swell into tsunamis - he shelters him, _Crawly_ , with his wing. An involuntary offer the Demon accepts without fuss, ducking under Aziraphale’s plumage as if it were second nature.

Their feathers are the first to brush together, the underside of Aziraphale’s coverts gracing over the top of Crawly’s folded wings. Aziraphale feels it as surely as the weight of the robes on his skin, and it sends a jolt through him, like the bolt of lightning that splits the sky right then.

He makes to retract his wing, his odd little human corporation seizing up at his mistake - but then there is _warmth_ all down his left.

Mouth dry, Aziraphale twists his head to stare at Crawly. The Demon has stepped closer, pressing lightly against Aziraphale’s arm as he huddles further away from the rain.

The organ in his chest makes itself known again, just like the first time Aziraphale saw the humans embrace.

‘Her newest Creation, then?’ Crawly asks, brows furrowed and nose scrunched up.

Aziraphale stammers out an affirmative.

‘Wha’s the point? Just gets everything … damp,’ Crawly continues, seemingly oblivious of their contact.

Or he simply doesn’t care. Aziraphale cannot understand why. This is … it’s not _natural_.

Is it?

‘I …’ Aziraphale clears his throat, his every sense converged on his left arm. ‘I am told that, uhm, water is - is necessary for the new lifeforms here. And …’ Aziraphale exhales sharply when Crawly looks at him; his piercing yellow eyes are nearly as distracting, ‘… I believe the rains are meant to make the oceans.’

‘Oceans,’ Crawly repeats, drawing out the _O_. ‘What’s that?’

‘I’m not sure,’ Aziraphale admits, aware of his own breathlessness. ‘Something like the water pools here,’ he gestures vaguely at the Garden behind them, ‘but bigger.’

Crawly wrinkles his nose, looking back across the dunes. ‘That’s Her plan for this place? Make everything damp? All’s damp enough Below.’ His unnerving gaze settles on Aziraphale again. ‘I s’pose you like it.’

‘What?’

‘You’re …’ Crawly tilts his head, ‘in it. The falling water. But you don’t seem to mind.’ He sticks out his left arm and blinks. ’S’cold, too.’

‘Oh, I …’ With Crawly’s words, Aziraphale becomes aware that the rain indeed is chilly. It’s soaking through his robes, flattening his hair and weighing down his wings.

All of that pales against the warmth of the arm pressed nonchalantly to his. It’s like nothing Aziraphale has experienced before. Here on Earth, he’s known the heat of the sun on his face, the humidity of Eden’s lush greenery that clings to his skin, so different from Heaven already but _this_ -

This is _touch_ , Aziraphale realises. An intimate warmth that has spread to saturate every inch of his being, corporal and ethereal.

It should feel wrong, forbidden. _Sinful_. It’s not done among Angels and Crawly here is _Fallen._

Yet, Aziraphale cannot help but wish, in a guilt-racked part of his mind, that they were not separated by their garments.

How warm would Crawly feel if it were his skin against Aziraphale’s?

His face burns at the thought; something seems to twist inside him. He doesn’t understand it, any of it, but he doesn’t move away.

When Crawly eventually leaves, he doesn’t take all of his warmth with him. A trace lingers, prickling Aziraphale’s skin under his drenched clothes - a token he is destined to carry with him, always.

~***~

Aziraphale enjoys his new task of watching over humankind, to bless them when needed and give them a nudge in the right direction. The more of them there are, the more he learns about their many, interesting facets.

It’s so unlike Heaven, where every Angel is cut from the same cloth. Monotonous.

The humans are, too, technically speaking, but no two act the same. It is the gift of free will, Aziraphale realises, and he watches with fascination as these varied characters spread out to inhabit this wonderful planet of theirs.

It’s through these observations that Aziraphale learns more about the human facet that intrigues him most - _touch_ appears to be more complex than he’d initially thought.

The first humans had touched with intent and love and intimacy. Then there are more and Aziraphale sees how intent, love and intimacy differ between lovers and family. The nuances in familiarity shared between siblings and friends. The distance expected between strangers.

The dynamics shift and change, human to human, society to society, and Aziraphale marvels at it.

More than once, he wonders what it might be like. He doesn’t touch humans; his blessings don’t require physical contact. Yet he can’t help but imagine the firm grasp of a hand in his. A friendly clap on his shoulder. A swift kiss to his cheek. A gentle embrace.

All these simple gestures that serve as greetings or expressions of affection among humans. Aziraphale cannot conceive of touching a fellow Angel in such a manner.

It’s wrong, he tells himself.

Then he remembers the one touch he’d shared with his infernal adversary. The memory still flusters him, evoking tendrils of shame in his gut, but greater is his curiosity - and the inexplicable longing to feel it again.

It had been so blasé, Crawly’s touch. Like he’d thought nothing of it.

There hasn’t been a repeat of it, however.

The two of them have run into each other a few times since their first meeting. Crawly is always the one to approach, greeting Aziraphale with amiable grins and not seeming very dastardly at all. Aziraphale is amenable to chat with him about humans and the world, but not once has Crawly reached for him again.

Aziraphale’s train of thought derails there. His recollection of Crawly’s warmth against his arm turns into a fantasy of Crawly taking his hand, the way humans do. Skin on skin. He thinks about how humans hold each other close or the way they press their lips to another’s face. The simple intimacy and love incandescent in those gestures. The desire.

And he imagines Crawly, with that mischievous tilt to his soft-looking mouth and those long fingers on his -

Aziraphale’s throat closes up. What is wrong with him? He shouldn’t be having such thoughts, least of all about a Demon.

Aziraphale locks away his fantasy. He drowns out all thoughts about touch, and pretends his gaze doesn’t linger on Crawly’s admittedly handsome face or elegant hands. So what if the Demon’s human corporation is pleasing to the eye? Aziraphale cannot, will not, entertain the utterly laughable idea of touching him. Holding him.

His resolve shatters not long after, but it has nothing to do with how alluring Crawly looks.

Two days after the summits of the highest mountains disappeared beneath the rising flood, Aziraphale enters the barn on Noah’s ark to find Crawly inside the empty stall intended for a unicorn.

Aziraphale stops dead, staring. Crawly is utterly drenched, sitting on a bale of hay with his arms around his knees. Limp strands of hair hang over his face, the water darkening that deep red to nearly black. He is shivering something awful and it takes a few seconds for him to recognise the Angel.

‘’Zzzira - pha - ale?’ Crawly barely manages the name, teeth chattering.

‘Goodness, did you just come in from the storm?’ Aziraphale gasps, quickly crouching down in front of the Demon. ‘I hadn’t seen you on the ark since the waters began to -’ He stops, wincing. ‘Well … I wondered where you’d gone.’

‘I t-tried,’ Crawly begins, ‘to - to get as m-many hu-humans to …’ he bares his teeth in a grimace. ‘W-Wasssn’t enough … the r-rain wasss too he-heavy and … I - I tr-tried to find sur-sssurvivorsss b-but…’ Crawly trails off.

Aziraphale feels his heart sink, somehow even heavier than when this whole crisis began. He wants to say something but there are no words. He cannot judge the Great Plan, but deep inside, he cannot deny how moved he is by Crawly. Although it was in vain, there was more weight behind Crawly’s attempts than the Archangels’ snubbing of Aziraphale’s concerns before the flood began.

Swallowing, he says instead, ‘You should dry off.’

‘No energy,’ Crawly grunts. ‘C-could barely k-keep flying un-til I g-got he-here.’

‘Please, let me,’ Aziraphale offers. When Crawly doesn’t protest, he snaps his fingers, drawing the water out of Crawly’s clothes and hair. His clinging robes loosen and the auburn hair becomes a cascade of bouncy curls once more.

Crawly gives another grunt that Aziraphale infers as gratitude, but he is still shivering violently.

‘You poor dear. I’d make a fire, but it’s a wooden boat and the animals are already spooked -’

‘’S fine. I’ll b-be right as r-rain in a jiffy.’

Aziraphale leans in. ‘Would a warming miracle from me react adversely with your energy?’

Crawly makes a face. ‘B-best not ri-risk it.’

‘Oh, Craw -’ Aziraphale freezes when chilled fingers suddenly wrap around his bare wrist.

Golden eyes, imploring but wary, bore into his own. ‘Sssit with me?’ Crawly’s voice is nearly a whisper.

‘I…’

‘’S just … you’re warm and …’ Crawly lets go of Aziraphale, almost reluctantly. ‘B-body heat wo-works, I hear…’

Aziraphale cannot say what drives him to oblige, whether his response is entirely conscious. He finds himself sitting beside Crawly on the hay, his left arm pressed tight to Crawly’s right, just like that day on the Garden wall.

Crawly doesn’t push for more, simply leaning against Aziraphale. The seconds drag on but his shaking doesn’t subside. Before he’s properly processed the thought, Aziraphale blurts,

‘Perhaps it’d be more effective if we held each other?’

To his surprise, Crawly chuckles. ‘That’s u-usually how i-it’s done. I,’ he clears his throat, ‘I di-didn’t want t-to assume -’ He stops talking when Aziraphale takes his hand this time. Crawly’s palm is freezing still.

Refusing to think too much about what he’s doing, Aziraphale tugs on Crawly’s hand. Eyes wide, Crawly moves. Aziraphale isn’t sure who manoeuvres whom, but soon they are lying on their sides on the hay, facing each other. Crawly looks at him for a long moment, seeming to gauge something; he slings his arm around Aziraphale, pulling him close until Crawly can tuck his face against his throat.

For several seconds, Aziraphale doesn’t breathe, pointless human habit though it is. He can feel the length of Crawly’s shivering body pressed all the way down his front; the sharp nose digging into the hollow of his throat. Crawly’s arm around Aziraphale’s waist is strong and firm, but it’s not so much a cage as it is … an embrace.

Like how Aziraphale had imagined before.

Aziraphale bites his lower lip, closing his eyes. It’s overwhelming. He has never been touched like this, his whole body held to another. He thinks back on every time he has seen humans do this, the sheer affection and joy they radiate.

This is not … this isn’t one of those. This isn’t a hug. And yet, there is no denying the gentleness of Crawly’s touch, though it is Aziraphale supposedly offering warmth and comfort here.

There is no question that this doesn’t feel … wrong.

Swallowing, Aziraphale wraps his arm carefully around Crawly, resting his palm on his back. With a slow exhale, he allows his body to relax.

At that, Crawly leans further into him, wedging a cold foot between Aziraphale’s shins to tangle their legs together.

Oh goodness.

Aziraphale has had no idea that this could feel so comfortable. So nice.

So _good_.

The rain continues to fall outside, unheeding of the passage of time. The chill disappears from Crawly’s body, and soon he is radiating that familiar heat again. Aziraphale doesn’t pull away; neither does Crawly.

Instead, he slides his hand from Aziraphale’s back up into his hair, gently stroking his head and playing with the curls falling on his nape. Unlike Crawly’s body, his fingers remain cool to the touch. Surprising, but not unpleasantly so.

Aziraphale shivers at the patterns traced on his neck. He buries his nose in Crawly’s hair. It’s soft and smells like the rain.

Crawly falls asleep like that, cradled in Aziraphale’s arms. Aziraphale leaves him hours later, when it’s time for his daily blessings. When he returns, Crawly is awake.

They don’t exchange a word about the previous night, but the next few months on the ark are spent sitting or walking together, speaking of trivialities or nothing at all.

When they disembark, Crawly goes his own way with nothing but a word of farewell. Aziraphale watches him go, thinking of how lovely it felt to hold and be held by Crawly.

They didn’t speak of it, but he now knows his previous resolve was hopeless all along.

He will never stop wanting it, Crawly’s touch.

~***~

There is an unmistakeable shift in their interactions in the centuries that follow. They come across each other with more frequency, often the result of having assignments within each other’s vicinity, and they end up talking more.

Crawly has never hesitated to approach Aziraphale, but now he does so with greater enthusiasm.

They discover the joys of drinking, and then drinking together. Over many a brew in many a different place, Aziraphale finds himself chatting with this Demon who feels less and less like a foe, and rather more like a -

It takes him a long time to finish that thought, although he knows the word. Knows that it fits; that it’s true.

He allows that word to manifest when Crawly begins to adopt human-style greetings with him when they meet.

A short bow at the waist on one continent. A firm grip of his hand on another.

A brief hug around his shoulders in one country. Swift kisses to his cheeks in another.

It makes Aziraphale’s heart jump every single time. He recognises the greetings for what they are, aware that Crawly is careful to gauge his reception for the slightest sign that Aziraphale doesn’t want it - to be greeted, to be _touched_ , like a friend.

Because that’s what Crawly is doing. What Crawly is.

A friend.

There is still that voice in Aziraphale’s head, hissing that it’s wrong. Impossible.

But who is Aziraphale to deny what’s right in front of him? He bears witness to the mischief Crawly gets up to, the hidden goodness in his _temptations_. He sees the joy Crawly takes in walking among humans, not-so-secretly marvelling at their genius.

And he himself experiences the kindness Crawly disguises behind that lackadaisical, often abrasive, attitude.

At the end of one of the worst days in the world, his friend, now _Crowley_ , finds Aziraphale in the deserted alley he has hidden in after returning to Jerusalem. He is leaning against the wall, face buried in his hands as he recalls the silhouette of Yeshua nailed to that terrible cross, stark against a sunset as bloody as the red spattered across the sands below.

‘Angel.’

Aziraphale is startled to see that Crowley has followed him from Golgotha. He wipes a hand over his eyes. ‘Why are you here?’

He doesn’t want Crowley to witness this. Back there, with Crowley’s accusing tone reverberating in his ears, Aziraphale hadn’t been able to express his true opinion. It wouldn’t hold up against the Great Plan, anyway. Aziraphale has no say in Yeshua’s divine fate.

That doesn’t mean he doesn’t have _thoughts_. Only, Crowley isn’t supposed to see Aziraphale wrecked like this, over a decision made by Heaven. His own side.

But Crowley’s eyes, glittering in the gathering darkness, hold no contempt. There are no jeers. No harshness.

Instead Crowley pushes back his veil to reveal his face, like the dropping of a barrier. His hands rest on Aziraphale’s shoulders, prompting him to look up.

Aziraphale trembles under the touch. He can feel the coolness of Crowley’s fingers through the thin cotton of his tunic.

‘It’s all right, angel.’ Crowley’s voice is low. He pulls gently and Aziraphale doesn’t have the wherewithal to resist.

‘What are you doing?’

The hands on his shoulders glide over his back, until Aziraphale is nestled against Crowley’s chest.

‘You’re distraught,’ Crowley replies simply, but Aziraphale can feel the weight of his emotion.

‘I … I don’t,’ Aziraphale begins, breath hitching.

‘It’s all right to be distraught,’ Crowley tells him. ‘Feeling pretty shitty today myself.’

Aziraphale can’t think of a reply. It then occurs he doesn’t have to. He understands what Crowley is giving him, offered without judgement or condition, and Aziraphale is too heartsick to turn it down. Biting back a sob, he fists his hands in Crowley’s black abaya and buries his face in the crook of his shoulder.

He remembers when it was Crowley who’d hidden his face under Aziraphale’s chin; he lets the tears fall, wetting Crowley’s neck and his pretty veil.

Surely Crowley must feel them, but he doesn’t allude to it. He holds Aziraphale for as long as the Angel clings to him, even as dusk darkens to night and stars twinkle to life in the sliver of sky above their heads.

Aziraphale soaks in every bit of warmth he can from Crowley before drawing away, shivering again when Crowley’s cool fingers caress his hips as they separate.

‘Join me for a drink?’ Crowley says. ‘Seems an apt night to get sloshed.’

‘Please,’ says Aziraphale with a weary smile.

He lets Crowley distract him from his own whirring thoughts until dawn breaks over the horizon. Not once does Crowley speak of the terrible event from the day before, and when they part this time, the smile he bestows on Aziraphale is lighthearted. Kind.

Crowley is kind. Crowley, his friend, is kind. With his words, his face, his very touch.

Aziraphale thinks back on every moment they have known each other and his heart leaps in chest. The blood roars in his ears and his mouth becomes dry as sandpaper.

He looks at Crowley’s wondrous smile and thinks then -

More than just a friend.

Aziraphale sees the way Crowley’s gaze lingers on him before he leaves, and it’s all he can do to not grab his hand. To not beg, _stay_.

Oh.

Oh no.

~***~

The realisation of feelings brings with it the awareness of danger. There is always an element of risk to their casual meetings, two ‘enemies’ sharing drinks and meals behind the backs of their superiors.

But the risk of being _involved_ with Crowley far outweighs anything else. Aziraphale can only imagine what he might face from the Archangels if they were caught.

He doesn’t dare imagine what Hell might do to Crowley.

No, it won’t do. Aziraphale would rather hide away the truth of his love for eternity than see Crowley suffer. Even though he suspects, _knows_ , that he is not alone in this feeling. This simple, complicated, extremely human feeling.

So Aziraphale draws his boundaries. He meets Crowley, but never for long. He eats and drinks with Crowley, but doesn’t touch him. Their shoulders may bump as they walk, and once in a blue moon, Aziraphale feels the brush of Crowley’s fingertips as they exchange cups and goblets of wine. But nothing lingers.

If Crowley has noticed, he doesn’t bring it up. Aziraphale is relieved, and confident of his success in reining in his love for Crowley, his craving for Crowley’s touch.

But the facade can only last for so long.

Aziraphale has been resolute along their many run-ins, during the striking of their Arrangement, and the many centuries that have followed since. He’s held himself back even in the face of Crowley’s dashing rescues of him, half of which Aziraphale may have exaggerated just for the pleasure of seeing the Demon run to him.

It all crumbles on a cool Autumn day when Aziraphale meets Crowley on a country road, having left behind London to attend some blessings up north. Crowley, it turns out, is on his way back to London, and they settle in the grass by the roadside after tethering their horses nearby.

Aziraphale is having a splendid time catching up with Crowley and wishing he’d brought some tea they could share, when Crowley sudden stiffens. Aziraphale notices the change the very moment he smells something pungent in the air. A faint whiff of brimstone.

Without warning, Crowley is on him, pushing Aziraphale down on the blanket he’d miracled up earlier. The material vanishes from under him, leaving Aziraphale pressed to the grass with a manic-eyed Demon straddling his hips.

‘Don’t move,’ Crowley hisses. ‘Pretend you’ve yielded.’

‘What -’ Aziraphale begins but is interrupted by another voice.

‘Demon Crowley! I’m here to -’

Aziraphale sees the newcomer in his peripheral vision just as Crowley closes a hand around his throat. A surge of infernal power yanks his arms over his head; Crowley grabs both of his wrists in his free hand, pinning Aziraphale down effectively.

Aziraphale’s first instinct is to buck Crowley off him, a feat he can easily accomplish, calling on a miracle if necessary. But his thoughts are split between Crowley’s hold on him and the interloper, who is another Demon clad in black.

He hasn’t finished speaking when Crowley barks over his shoulder, ‘Oi, back off! This one’s mine!’

The Demon, wearing a corporation of a younger appearance than either of them, stops and eyes Aziraphale warily.

‘D’you need help, sir?’

Crowley scoffs. ‘Been playing a game of discorporation with this one since the dawn of time, bucko. What I need is for you to scram so I can finish off the wanker.’

Aziraphale swallows, staring up at Crowley. He gets what Crowley is doing, reminding himself that he has _yielded._ But, despite the looming danger if this Demon doubted Crowley for a single second, Aziraphale is hyperaware of every point of contact between them. Crowley’s weight is surprisingly heavy on his hips, and though his grip doesn’t hurt, Aziraphale can feel the strength in his hands. The contrast between the cool fingers around his throat and wrists, and the warmth on his waist is thrilling.

Blood is rising in his face, and he hopes the intruder reads it as the result of a fight. Blood is rushing elsewhere too, and he hopes harder that Crowley doesn’t notice.

The stranger is speaking again. ‘Duke Hastur sent me to discuss your upcoming centennial review -’

Crowley makes a guttural sound that conveys his exact level of fury and annoyance. ‘Listen, ya shit. Any idea how much fucking work it takes to block an Angel’s powers?’

‘Um, no.’

Crowley bares his teeth in a terrible grin. ‘Any idea what this one’d do to you if I lost my chance here?’

‘No.’ The Demon takes a step back.

‘Then do not fucking interrupt me!’ Crowley roars.

‘I’ll - I’ll find you tomorrow,’ stammers the Demon. ‘Bad day, sir.’ And he disappears as quickly as he came.

Crowley sags, his feral expression melting into a look of relief. ‘Damn, that was close. At least they sent some idiot junior. He didn’t notice our horses…’ Crowley pauses, eyes widening at the soft noise of protest Aziraphale makes when he removes his hand from his throat.

‘Did I hurt you,’ he asks, alarmed. ‘I didn’t put much pressure -’ Again Crowley trails off, this time at the hitch in Aziraphale’s breath when Crowley touches his neck, checking for injury.

Aziraphale stares at him, utterly mortified. He cannot help himself, however, when a small occult miracle undoes his cravat and opens the top of his pressed shirt, baring his throat properly. Crowley’s fingers slide over his sweating skin, tracing his Adam’s apple to rest in the hollow of his throat. A gasp of pleasure escapes him.

Crowley meets his wide eyes, his expression devolving from surprise to something unreadable. He still has Aziraphale’s hands pinned above his head; he moves slowly, his clever fingers undoing Aziraphale’s cufflinks to trace the veins down his wrists.

Aziraphale bites his lip, his eyelids fluttering at the touch. Heat is pooling in his gut and by now, Aziraphale is certain Crowley can’t miss it. There is no hiding anymore.

He has thought about this before, on some of those lonely nights when his imagination had turned to Crowley and the warmth of his body, the coolness of his hands. This particular fantasy is a fleeting one, just a handful of stars lost in a galaxy of thoughts focussed on being held and cared for.

Aziraphale _has_ thought about this though, and the hard evidence of it is bulging his breeches.

For a moment, he wishes that Crowley _had_ discorporated him, if only to spare him this embarrassment.

But then Crowley breathes, gazing down at Aziraphale with something akin to enchantment, ‘You _want_ this. Don’t you, angel?’

Aziraphale blinks up at him, parting his dry mouth.

‘You want me, too.’

 _Too_. The word sears his ears, sings in his blood, sets his heart aflame. The denial on the tip of his tongue burns to ash.

‘Quite a bit more than just _want_ ,’ Aziraphale croaks, his cheeks heating further.

Crowley’s face splits into a grin so blinding it steals the very breath out of Aziraphale. ‘Good to know we’re on the same side.’

Oh. _Oh._

There’s a prickling sensation in his eyes and it only intensifies when Crowley leans over him, bringing his lips to Aziraphale’s until there is but a hair’s breadth between them.

‘This all right?’

Distantly, Aziraphale is aware of the voice in his head warning him of the risk, reminding him of the danger they had barely just escaped. But with Crowley’s confession still resounding between them, he is helpless to say anything but a desperate, ‘Please, my dear.’

With a hum that can only be described as overjoyed, Crowley presses his smile to Aziraphale’s lips, a soft, prolonged contact that has Aziraphale’s heart pounding as loudly as it did that first time on the wall of Eden. Aziraphale pushes back blindly, having little to guide him save for the desirous images he has nursed for too long.

Crowley releases his wrists to cup his cheek, tilting Aziraphale’s face until their mouths slot together more comfortably. And, oh goodness, that is - if Crowley’s hands are like the cool touch of water, then his mouth is a furnace.

Aziraphale shudders into the kiss. His bottom lip is caught between Crowley’s and he makes a noise of surprise when Crowley sucks on it. Aziraphale can feel Crowley smile against him before the Demon nips playfully at his lips, evoking another pleased sound from him.

Aziraphale wraps his freed arms around Crowley’s shoulders, gripping at the rough fabric of his black coat to bring him closer. His senses are flooded with nothing but Crowley; the feeling of being held like he is something precious; the feeling of being kissed like he is something desirable. Crowley is kissing him, touching him, with intent and love and intimacy - oh, is _this_ what that feels like?

Crowley pulls back slowly, tugging on Aziraphale’s lip until they part with a soft smack. His eyes, gleaming like honey and blown wide with want, rove over Aziraphale’s face, searching.

‘Angel, you sure this is - mmph!’ He grunts when Aziraphale yanks him back down. Getting the message, Crowley lets his weight push down on the Angel and gently licks over the seam of his mouth.

That, Aziraphale was not expecting. He gasps a little, equally distracted by Crowley’s body and the stroke of his tongue. Taking advantage of the response, Crowley slips his tongue between Aziraphale’s lips, and Aziraphale thinks he ought to be put off by the messiness of it; on the contrary, it’s surprisingly titillating, even more than Crowley’s first chaste kiss. Aziraphale chases his tongue with his own, moaning eagerly when Crowley sets about to thoroughly ravish his mouth.

Bearing witness to the different kinds of kisses humans share, Aziraphale has secretly, guiltily, wondered about this too. And again, in direct conflict with the shameful whispers of its depravity, this feels wonderful. Right. _Good_.

Just as Aziraphale has been proven wrong, time after time, about his contrived perception that Crowley must be a dastardly adversary, is this not proof that his preconceived understanding of touch is also erroneous? He is being held and touched so sweetly, with such ardent love, but he has not burst into flames or anything of the like.

Well, save for the heat in his face and the raging fire in his gut. He arches up against Crowley, seeking relief and desperate to feel _more_.

The roll of their hips together makes Crowley break away again, groaning loudly. ‘Oh, angel, that’sss…’ He grinds down experimentally and lights up when Aziraphale responds with a delighted moan.

‘Please, Crowley.’ Aziraphale bucks up against him once more. ‘I want - I need…!’

Crowley shushes him with another kiss, shuffling around until he is knelt between Aziraphale’s legs. Grabbing him under the thighs, Crowley urges Aziraphale to wrap them around his waist.

The heels of Aziraphale’s boots dig into Crowley’s back. He is about to snap them off but then Crowley rolls their hips together, and in _this_ position -

‘Oh God,’ Aziraphale gasps, not entirely voluntarily.

He catches the smug smirk that threads through Crowley’s lips, but then he is being kissed again, muffling every little cry that escapes him as they rock together. Even through their breeches, Aziraphale can feel Crowley, as hard as himself, and pleasure wrecks his body with the rising friction between them.

Braced up on one forearm, Crowley grabs his thigh with the other to grind their hips even closer together. Aziraphale slides a hand through Crowley’s hair, pulling helplessly on his curls. Crowley grunts into his panting mouth but doesn’t stop, building the static crackling between their bodies.

It’s fire and bliss and _not enough_.

‘My dear,’ Aziraphale manages, shoving an arm between them to grapple with Crowley’s breeches, ‘please -’

He doesn’t finish before Crowley surges up. Aziraphale watches, entranced, as his clever fingers unfasten his breeches faster than Aziraphale has thought possible. Pushing down his flap, Crowley frees himself and Aziraphale’s mouth slackens at the sight of him, big and straining and leaking already.

Aziraphale has done that to him. Crowley is like this because of _him_.

Crowley reaches for Aziraphale, then hesitates. ‘Angel?’

‘Yes. I want it.'

Aziraphale is freed from the confines of his breeches in no time at all. Crowley stares down at him, arousal flaring anew on his countenance.

‘Crowley?’ Aziraphale begins uncertainly.

With something akin to a growl, Crowley leans down, crushing their lips together. Aziraphale slings his legs around him and thinks he might discorporate; without the barrier of their breeches, his every sense is focussed on the glide and stroke of Crowley against him. He has never felt something this acutely and it leaves him a writhing mess.

Crowley sighs his name and he kisses over Aziraphale’s jaw and down his neck, reaching down to wrap a hand around both of them. His cool fingers are jarring against the heat between them, adding to the tendrils of desire coiling in Aziraphale’s gut. He welcomes the touch and they thrust together into Crowley’s hand, their movements growing sloppy and frenzied until Aziraphale feels like he is on a precipice.

‘Yeah, angel, that’s it,’ Crowley murmurs against the shell of his ear. ‘Let go.’

Aziraphale falls apart with Crowley’s name on his lips. In that moment, he is abruptly forced up into Crowley, thrust away from the ground. The force of it makes them roll over, Aziraphale landing on Crowley’s chest.

Straightening up, he blushes upon realising what happened - his wings are flaring out from his back, his white plumage aglow in the late afternoon sun and joints aching after a cramped age. His feathers rustle as his wings quiver, shaking from the force of his pleasure.

Crowley is gaping, open-mouthed. Aziraphale reddens further when he sees that Crowley too has finished, presumably at the sight of him.

Aziraphale has barely tucked away his wings before Crowley pulls him into his arms, settling on their sides. Waving his hand, he cleans them up and puts their clothes to rights.

‘Well,’ he says, a little ragged, ‘that was …’

‘That was.’

‘A damn good thing, if I actually made you -’

‘Oh hush.’

Crowley’s grin dims to something more reserved; earnest. ‘I’ve always wanted to, you know?’

‘What, bring out my wings?’ Aziraphale tries to sound lighthearted, still flustered.

‘To hold you like this. Touch you like …’ Crowley pauses, nervousness flashing in his eyes. ‘Like you’re mine.’

The confession sends a pleasant shiver dancing down his spine. Meeting Crowley’s eyes, full of sincerity and an emotion Aziraphale knows too well, he finds himself admitting,

‘You’re the only one.’

Crowley blinks. ‘Only one to what?

‘Only one to - to do all that.’ Aziraphale swallows. ‘No one else has … no one’s ever wanted to …’ He averts his eyes. ‘It’s - it’s not a done thing in Heaven and -’

‘Not the first mistake they’ve made,’ Crowley replies, his tone sharp. He tightens his arms around Aziraphale. ‘So no one knows what they’re missing out with you? Well, good for me then. Call me a selfish prick, but I don’t like sharing.’ His golden eyes bore into Aziraphale. ‘Especially not you.’

Aziraphale’s heart flutters at Crowley’s straightforwardness. He melts into Crowley’s embrace, touching him almost desperately.

‘We can’t keep doing this, though,’ he whispers, regret creeping in at last. ‘It’s too dangerous, my dear -’

‘Sshh.’ Crowley catches Aziraphale’s wandering hand and presses a kiss to his knuckles. ‘We’ll figure it out. We already have a successful Arrangement. Who’s to say we can’t have another?’

‘If Hell caught you -’

‘I won’t let them. We’ll be careful,’ Crowley assures him. ‘Guess that means no more fucking on fields -’

Aziraphale chokes out a laugh in spite of himself.

‘But don’t ask me to let you go when I finally have you, angel. I never thought that I could -’ Crowley stops, breathing out shakily. ‘Please don’t.’

‘I never thought I could, either,’ Aziraphale admits, leaning in to kiss him.

‘We’ll figure it out,’ Crowley repeats. ‘Together.’

Smiling, Aziraphale concedes, ‘Together.’

The promise settles over them, cocooning them as surely as Crowley’s arms around him. Listening to Crowley’s heartbeat under his ear as the sun sinks towards the horizon, all Aziraphale feels then is the reassuring comfort of being loved. At long last, he is warm.

**Author's Note:**

> This is where I confess that the ~~actual~~ working title of this fic was _Every time we touch (I feel this static)_. If you know, you know lmao
> 
> I'm a little nervous about the smut scene. It wasn't that explicit hence the 'M' rating, but let me know if I miscalculated and this fic should be rated higher.
> 
> Thank you so much for reading! I would love to hear your thoughts <3  
> You can also hmu on [Twitter](https://twitter.com/RV_Phoenix_Soar) and [Tumblr](https://phoenix-soar.tumblr.com)
> 
> More of my Ineffable Husbands fics [here](https://archiveofourown.org/works?utf8=%E2%9C%93&commit=Sort+and+Filter&work_search%5Bsort_column%5D=revised_at&include_work_search%5Brelationship_ids%5D%5B%5D=575567&work_search%5Bother_tag_names%5D=&work_search%5Bexcluded_tag_names%5D=&work_search%5Bcrossover%5D=&work_search%5Bcomplete%5D=&work_search%5Bwords_from%5D=&work_search%5Bwords_to%5D=&work_search%5Bdate_from%5D=&work_search%5Bdate_to%5D=&work_search%5Bquery%5D=&work_search%5Blanguage_id%5D=&user_id=Phoenix_Soar)


End file.
